


Appropriate Attire, or, Five Times Sherlock Got Dressed, and One Time He Didn't

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: After The Rain Comes The Sunshine [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bad Days, Butterfly Effect, Demisexual Sherlock, Light Angst, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 16:53:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock's bad day requires several changes of clothes.





	Appropriate Attire, or, Five Times Sherlock Got Dressed, and One Time He Didn't

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, shifting into Scottie’s mindset. He felt his body change too – shoulders dropping as he hunched protectively, hands stuffed in the pockets of his filthy hoodie, his demenour now broadcasting, ‘leave me alone’ rather than Sherlock’s natural ‘look at me’. Scottie was one of his best disguises, as he was so different to Sherlock. He lived in a variety of places, but Scottie had slept last night under a bridge, and he was cold and hungry. Fortunately for him, it was only a few more hours before Scottie could disappear again, once Sherlock had the information he’d come out as Scottie to collect. Oliver Atkinson was an odious man, and Sherlock would feel great personal satisfaction in helping to bring down his network.

He scratched at his head (Scottie’s ever present beanie itched) and yawned loud and obnoxiously. With any luck, he’d gather a few more tidbits before his main informant made an appearance. That was the best thing about Sherlock’s homeless network – people always knew when Scottie was around, and that he could arrange for meaningful compensation for information. He never had to do anything but show up and sleep rough for a few nights, collect the information and go home again.

Scottie leaned against the wall. Inside his head, Sherlock wondered what John was doing right now. He knew that Sherlock would be away for a few days, but he never asked for details when he knew Sherlock would be on the streets. The night he’d left, though, John had mentioned wanting to talk to Sherlock about something. Sherlock had been preoccupied trying to find Scottie and had not paid enough attention to deduce what John might have been talking about; could it have something to do with his unusual behaviour lately?

Sherlock was pulled out of his ponderings by the arrival of one of his informants; the morning was quite busy, by Scottie’s standards, and before he knew it, Sherlock was on the way home to Baker Street for a well-earned shower. Scottie had a lot of admirable qualities, but personal hygiene was not his forte.

 

2.

An hour later, a completely different man stepped into the kitchen of Baker Street, buttoning the jacket of his impeccable suit. Gone was the itchy beanie, the greasy strands of hair; the hoodie and bad posture had been stashed, and Sherlock, as he was now, was freshly shaven. He ran a satisfied hand over his smooth jaw again; stubble was one of his least favourite parts of a disguise. A quick check in the mirror over the fireplace (hair – great; suit – excellent; pop the collar of his coat - perfect) and he was off to NSY, shaking off the uncomfortable morning as he jumped in a cab. The trip was short, and John once again came to mind – perhaps his odd behaviour was something to do with the state of the fridge? It was particularly bad, even Sherlock had to admit, and he resolved to at least _look_ at his storage system – before he was leaping out at Scotland Yard, Belstaff swirling around him.

He strode into Anderson’s lab to see a truly revolting sight, far worse than the state of his fridge.

“Oh, for God’s sake, really?” he spat in disgust. Anderson and Donovan, both mainly dressed but obviously working to rectify that, sprang apart, identical flushes and guilty expressions.

When Anderson saw who stood in his doorway, the guilt made way for anger, and he retorted, “What the hell is it, freak?”

Sherlock inclined an eyebrow at that before replying smoothly, “I want to see your results for the Atkinson case.”

“No.” Anderson told him flatly. He leaned against the bench, arms crossed, and smirked at Sherlock.

“Oh get out of the way, Anderson,” Sherlock said, moving to push past, looking for the pile of reports.

“Hey!” Anderson protested, and in the tussle, Sherlock bumped against the bench, knocking a large beaker onto the floor. Its contents spilled across his hip and dripped down his leg.

“Oh, nice.” He said to Anderson, revolted at the mess now pooling in his shoe. Donovan, now dressed, sniggered at the sight.

Anderson looked revolted. “Lestrade is gonna kill me, that’s-“

Sherlock cut across him. “I have no desire to know what this is, Anderson. Is it harmful?” When Anderson shook his head, Sherlock turned without a word, grabbed the report he’d spotted, and stalked out, his face mutinous.

 

3.

As no cabs would pick Sherlock up, he ended up taking the tube. By the time he got back to Baker Street, his entire outfit was beyond rescue. He stripped off in the kitchen, binning the lot. Another shower, and he dressed again, this time in a black suit and shirt and white vicar’s collar. Thick glasses and a wedding ring completed his outfit. He smoothed over the front of his shirt, still feeling a level of irritation at the incident with Donovan and Anderson. Perhaps he could find the security video of their little tryst and accidentally send it to Lestrade.

Petty vengeance satisfied, Sherlock sat for a moment, composing the backstory for the Reverend Alan Grantchester, soon to be confidante of Oliver Atkinson’s Great Aunt. After he’d cemented that firmly in his mind (younger of two sons, repressed bisexual, guilt over his own mothers’ death) he allowed his mind to linger once more on the John Conundrum. John had been both shorter with Sherlock and more eager to spend time with him lately. He’d barely had a date in the last month, and yet he seemed reluctant to discuss the matter. Sherlock’s questions and observations had been met with short, blunt answers, and he had ceased to ask. He continued to observe, though, and he had a room full of data about the changes in John lately. But what did it _mean_? Sherlock felt his own teeth grinding at the question. There was a whisper of a question in the back of his brain, _could it have something to do with..._ but he refused to listen. Irritated at his inability to figure it out, Sherlock shook his head, clearing the data for the moment.

Time for Rev. Alan Grantchester to do his thing and close this case. Sherlock stood, shook himself into the posture of the guilt ridden repressed second son, and stepped out to meet Mrs. Alice Peaseblossom. He calculated that it would take him no longer than one hour to engage her and gain the information he needed, at which point he could focus his considerable concentration on analysing John’s data.

 

4.

Sixty three minutes, Sherlock thought crossly, and I didn’t even get concrete proof. It was the extra time looking through the albums of cat photos for which he had not accounted. Sentiment, he supposed. Mycroft would have to know, and as soon as possible. He wouldn’t be pleased, and the thought of enduring his brother’s wrath played off against the satisfaction of giving him bad news. As he hailed a cab, Sherlock wondered if he should arrive at the Diogenes in character. Atkinson was one of his men, after all. Glancing down at his attire, Sherlock smirked as he shook his head - there was a better, more subtle plan.

As Sherlock changed his clothes once again, he carefully selected the tailored black jeans he’d bought for another case. Paired with a shirt and his Belstaff, nobody but Mycroft would notice – and the lack of formality would drive him crazy. Sherlock smirked as he looked at himself in the full length mirror in his room - Mycroft would certainly notice the heavier fabric and slightly different cut. It was only the bottom of his trousers that was visible, but it would be enough.

John’s behaviour was on Sherlock’s mind again in the cab – the lack of dates was the main piece of evidence bothering Sherlock. The only time John had ever abstained from pursuing women was when he was either in a relationship or pining after someone. Who could John be pining after, though? A woman, obviously, given his automatic reaction of “not gay!’ when anyone should suggest his heterosexuality be less than rock solid. _He’s never said he’s not bisexual – which means it could be you_ , the whisper traitorously pointed out. Where did that leave Sherlock, though? Before Sherlock could muse further on his sexual identity crisis (wasn’t that John’s department? he chastised himself), he’d arrived at the Diogenes Club. At least this would be fun. He bounced up the stairs to the private room, hoping to drag his thoughts away before Mycroft could deduce them.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Sherlock.” Mycroft greeted him, staring pointedly at his trouser cuffs, before scanning the rest of him and cocking his head in exasperation. “I can see you didn’t get the information I asked for, either.”

Sherlock’s initial grin was replaced by a scowl. “The Great Aunt doesn’t know if he has a safe, or with any certainty if he’s ever been to Cumbria.” He shrugged. “Nothing I can do.” The cavalier attitude would grate on Mycroft, he knew.

They exchanged a few more barbed comments before Sherlock left his brother, heading back to Baker Street. His phone pinged on the way there.

_How’s your day been? JHW_

_I’ve done nothing but get dressed repeatedly. Tedious. SH_

Sherlock regretted his sharp tone immediately, which did nothing for his ill mood.

 

5.

As he stepped out of his bedroom, clad in his pyjamas and second best dressing gown, Sherlock heard Rosie and Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs. The little girl clapped her hands when she saw Sherlock, and the irritated, restless mood dropped from him like a stone.

“Hello, Bumblebee.” Sherlock picked her up, wincing as her chubby fists tangled in his hair. He turned to Ms. Hudson, saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” She wittered on a little before reminding him that Rosie would need to be fed and bustling back downstairs.

“Honey toast, Buzz?” Sherlock asked, filling her milk bottle first. He gave it to her to drink while she sat on his hip, searching for the bread.

“Argh!” Sherlock shouted, a cold waterfall flooding suddenly down his back. Rosie, startled at both the sound and motion, began to cry, fat fist waving the now empty milk bottle, the loose lid having allowed the contents to spill down Sherlock’s back.

“Shhhh, it’s okay Little Bee, we’ll have a shower, will we?” Sherlock comforted her, and the word ‘shower’ certainly cheered her up. Rosie played happily on the floor of the shower while Sherlock washed the milk off himself, keeping his pants on for propriety’s sake, before he bundled them both up, he in a towel and she in her robe. He had no idea when John would be home, but she was getting tired, and contrary to Mrs. Hudson’s directive, didn’t seem hungry at all. As Sherlock held her, now dressed for bed, she drifted off, clutching the stuffed bee he’d found for her when she’d moved in with them.

Sherlock settled Rosie in her cot in John’s room before heading back downstairs. Today had not gone as he had planned – he’d spent the whole day getting dressed and wondering about John. As he stood in the kitchen, John once again came to mind, and this time Sherlock did not silence that whisper. _Would John ever look at Sherlock the way he looked at his dates?_ It had only been recently that Sherlock realised he wanted John to look at him like that, with desire, an interest beyond his intellect. While labels didn’t really mean a lot to Sherlock, he’d always thought that ‘asexual’ was the closest fit for him. Lately, however, he’d found himself doing some research on the matter. It turned out that there was a thing called ‘demisexual’ – being attracted to someone only after you have a close personal relationship first. Given how well he knew John – far better than anyone else, ever – Sherlock supposed that it wasn’t surprising it would be John, if demisexual was a closer fit for him. He’d certainly identified more with the stories people had posted in the forums he’d trolled, looking for answers.

As ever through this endless day, the question remained: _So where did he fit, then?_

“Pardon?” John’s voice cut into his reverie. Sherlock blinked – John was standing in front of him, finally home from work.

 

And the 1…

“John.” Sherlock breathed. Had he spoken aloud?

John’s eyes were still puzzled, and Sherlock watched as they darted lower, across his chest, still bare from the shower, then skittered away. Sherlock saw a slow blush rise up John’s cheeks, and he frowned. More of the confusing behaviour. “You asked me where you fit in.” John said, clearing his throat without looking at Sherlock. “I wasn’t sure if it was rhetorical or not.”

“Actually,” Sherlock replied recklessly, “It’s not rhetorical.” He stopped, not sure how to continue now that he’d started. John’s eyes came back to Sherlock, this time staying resolutely on his face. Sherlock had always found it more difficult to hide his thoughts from John, and now he could see as John read some of his internal struggle.

“You’ve been using my laptop again.” John said, his tone even.

Sherlock frowned. “Yes…” he admitted, confused. “How is that relevant?”

John smiled, a gentle, understanding smile. “I’ve seen your search history, you dolt.” He stopped there, waiting for Sherlock to figure out what he was saying.

Sherlock’s mind showed him the logic at lightening speed.

John saw what Sherlock had seen.

He read the page about different sexual identities.

He’d have followed Sherlock’s path through the demisexual forums and support groups.

He knew.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “And what do you think?” He scanned John’s face for a reaction, watching as a range of emotions crossed John’s face – fear and uncertainty, a wavering moment, then determination.

“I think that something must have changed if you’re looking for information.” Sherlock nodded silently, and John went on, “Something’s changed in you, and you’re looking for confirmation that it’s real, an actual thing that happens to other people.” Sherlock nodded again, unable to speak as John outlined Sherlock’s own thought process. “Which means it’s emotional, a change in your emotional connections.” He paused, swallowing hard and finally, finally, meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “You visited a lot of sites about demisexuals, Sherlock.”

“I did.” Sherlock finally found his voice, though it sounded hesitant to his ears.

“Do you think the description matches what you’re experiencing?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Well then, I’m going to make a deduction.” John stepped forward. “There’s only one person in your life that you could be said to have a close relationship with. So if you think you’re demisexual…” John had moved close enough now for Sherlock to be able to see his eyes clearly, as endless pools of deep blue. John’s hand reached out, settling on Sherlock’s chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. It had accelerated steadily as John spoke, and approached; as John’s hand touched his skin, Sherlock gasped, wondering if his heart would jump out of his chest at the contact.

“…it must be me.” John whispered. Sherlock nodded again, a minuscule motion that somehow encompassed the enormity of the emotion within. John nodded in return, running his hand down Sherlock’s arm to his hand, lifting it to settle over his own checked shirt. Sherlock had no idea what he was doing until John’s heart rate, as rapid as his own, registered against his palm.

“You?” Sherlock managed, and John smiled a little in confirmation.

“Me.” John whispered. His hand caressed Sherlock’s face, and it felt as gentle and comforting as he’d imagined. John moved closer and Sherlock, emboldened by John’s admission, slid his hand from John’s chest to his face, the stubble brushing his fingers as he mapped the shape of John’s jaw. They moved together, shifting inward until lips met, a kiss as soft as a sigh marking the moment. Sherlock shuddered at the contact, pressing in to deepen the kiss. John was pressing back against him, hands sliding around Sherlock’s hips now, and Sherlock had never been so grateful in all his life to have not bothered getting dressed.

“Sherlock…” John said breathlessly.

“Mmmm?”

“You know you told me you spent the day getting dressed?”

Sherlock nodded a little, not wanting to move his mouth from the delicious spot he’s found on John’s neck.

“I’m very glad you didn’t get dressed this last time.”

Sherlock groaned at that, clutching at John’s shirt. Me too, his brain supplied, though his mouth was far too busy to shape the words.


End file.
